remember: the scent of woodsmoke still rising from our pillows in the morning.
remember: blue ink under my fingernails on slow Indiana hills.
i'm forgetting the phone numbers of all the girls i used to love - or, still do, but maybe in distant and parallel ways.
big blue skies & a southward breeze and we passed the mountains long ago.
short hair, dragging feet. gold wristwatches. ghost towns with the most beautiful broken shutters in the world.
my back is turned, but my ears are still faintly straining for the sound of you trying to stop me. i'm the best eavesdropper in the world. i'm the best at sneaking away. i'd forgotten the joyful feeling of my ribs expanding, somewhere in the process of my slow vanishing.
(& sometimes, all answers come down to this:
because he holds me like a starfish when we sleep.)
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